Cat's Cradle
by Jamaica
Summary: Along came a serpent . . . [Used to be titled Cradle Will Rock, but now there is a sequel so I've accommodated. Yaoi.]
1. Cradle Will Rock

**Author's Note:** Takes place after Advent Children. I own the story, Square-Enix owns the characters and situation. Gah, how many times do I have to say this? Man.

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**Cat's Cradle**

Cradle Will Rock

It's a violent job, being a delivery man.

It's not a violence like the unadulterated hate they had bore for Sephiroth. That was a burden, something in need of being dispensed of. Instead, it's a violence like the feel of a rushing waterfall when one canoes down a cliff's edge, the explosion of adrenaline and the heart-pounding aftermath of the realization that one is still breathing, still alive and in one piece among the rocks and water. A miraculous thing, a baptizing experience, a gift.

It's a violence that Cloud Strife has made an art of. He feels it thrumming in the air every time he leaves Edge's barriers with a screech of his bike. He feels it rearing its ugly scent when the air changes around him, and the anticipation of an incoming battle takes over the surrounding atmosphere. And when such warnings become physical manifestations, whether in the form of a panther demon or a massive bird of prey, he feels the weight of his swords in his hands, ready and dripping with the chilling glow of Materia and death.

It may seem strange to many of his peers that someone like Cloud Strife revels in the pleasure of destruction. In truth, he doesn't. Not particularly. He doesn't really appreciate the sharp crunch when the back of his sword snaps some creature's bones in half, neither does he like the splatter of blood nor the stink of intestines. The monsters are just impediments, objects to be removed from his path to take one particular thing from point A to point B. They are unavoidable, frequent, but they are in no way, shape, or form, mundane.

One wrong step and he can lose a limb. One miscalculated swing and he will pay with half of his body's fluids. Cloud knows this. The packages he deliver direct him through many unknown terrains, and his only goal for the days ahead is to reach the destination intact. It may look simple, graceful even, to the passerby when they see him riding on his bike while fighting two hellhounds at his heels. But Cloud alone feels the danger, can taste it lingering in his mouth. He has traveled to the world's edge and back, faced dragons and griffons and other hideous monstrosities, but he hasn't been alone. And he is alone now, isn't he? Absolutely, completely, and utterly alone once he leaves the familiar city for days on end.

There is nothing less comforting than knowing he only has himself to fall back on in the midst of grand nothingness. Monsters or no. Cloud has learned that the hard way.

He doesn't really know why he's doing this. It's another thrill that he didn't ask for, and this time there isn't even any moralistic glamour behind it all. It started as an innocent bread-and-butter job, something he took up with the full expectation of his soon-to-come death. He had felt Jenova's claw tugging at him ever since The Battle ended, a good year before he actually contracted Geostigma. He didn't know that the job would outlast his disease, and what he had perfectly planned out – a good way to disappear without a trace – would drag him on in the complete opposite direction.

So he did his duty, perfected his kills, and played the most trustworthy middleman one could hire. And it no doubt would have been suffocating, had he not unintentionally invited a different kind of violence onto himself. A violence of skin and hands and mouth and limbs, of claws and teeth and that hot delicious pressure on his chest and around his body. And the sense of relief, of feeling something solid and pure, will linger within him long after the source vanishes into the moonlight.

He has completely forgotten when and how it started. But he does know that when the sun begins to drop down the even landscape, right before his inevitable return to Edge from his current delivery, there is something else waiting. All he needs to do is to simply stand next to the opened window, and it will come. Coming in that almost imperceptible flash of red among the orange glow and the cold breeze. He will suddenly find crimson eyes inches from his own, and the pressure of his escalated heartbeat will begin to constrict his throat. Two arms will extend then, and Cloud will let himself be pulled into the growing darkness.

What they do cannot be described as a mere act of sexual release. It's closer to an eruption, a complete absorption of the senses within the physicality. They leave their marks– teeth, hands, claw – that scar and burn upon each other. Marks that will scab and be erased later. It's a duel of pleasure camouflaged in unspoken rules and unnecessary regulations, where the breaking of skin and blood vessels is allowed but the popping of a button is not. Where one can bite off the clasp of the earring and the other will retaliate with a tug hard enough to tear into the lower lip.

They do not always make their way to the hotel bed. Partly because of the frantic nature of their coupling, partly because of the springs' dire protest and the danger of a collapsed bed frame. More often than not they simply fall on the floor, kicking away the table and the chairs if necessary. Their clothes usually end up scattered all over. Then they fall into the rhythm, a pace frenetic yet delicate enough for Cloud to become hopelessly addicted to. Afterwards they will pass out on the cold wood with Vincent's red cape as a source of warmth, along with their shared body heat and perhaps the remnant of a blaze in the brick fireplace a few feet away.

Cloud prefers the floor. Bloodstains, then, don't have a chance to become signatures on the cotton-white sheets. He also doesn't have the luxury to be comfortable and think when morning comes. Vincent usually leaves at the first ray of light. As quiet as the man is, Cloud always wakes up hearing the clicks of Vincent's many buckles. He will lie there, pretending to be unconscious until he feels the gentle kiss against his cheek right before Vincent's disappearing act. He will then wait five seconds, open his eyes, and sit up to prepare himself for the unavoidable arrival of the day.

He will go back to Edge with all of the residual scratches and bruises shining from his skin and blame the monsters. Tifa has stopped asking the details after the third time, and let him go on to his shower in peace. Once he gets in the water he scrubs himself raw while trying not to remember anything. He tries not to remember how white slender fingers felt on his shoulders, or the sound of heavy breaths panting beside his ear, or the exact number of times he has come while writhing in heat. He tries not to wonder what the funny feeling he has inside his stomach is whenever they happen to actually sleep on a bed, when Vincent will sometimes lick clean the wounds they created earlier. Cloud always finds himself trembling after that, like someone is shaking him from deep within and yelling at him to stop. He has never dared to find out what.

He keeps a Cure Materia behind the razors and the aftershave in the bathroom cabinet. It is there to treat those cuts and bury them flawlessly beneath his skin. He always emerges out of the shower and reverts back to his usual self – his role as companion to the persistent Tifa and guardian to the curious children. And he plays it perfectly. But there are leftover things from his trip that he cannot shake off, so he compensates. He makes love to Tifa and satisfies her every whim. He plays with the children and teaches them letters and math. He cooks and cleans and helps out at the bar and does things that earn astonished looks from the men and compliments from the women. And he earnestly believes all of his lies until it's time to make another delivery. Until he feels the fire from his angel of Death and wholeheartedly welcomes the release.

It's a violent job, being a delivery man. It's an even more violent job to keep all of his aches inside himself, a private battle that Cloud is sure that his body cannot win. He is sinking waist-deep within the light of domesticity, but he's still dangerously close to something sinister, where one look of a certain demon can seduce his entire being into nonexistence. The only protection against it is the weight of his guilt, and that is fading fast against what his soul screams for. Cloud can practically feel the red shadow glowering like a blaze of glory, threatening to break free the hold of the suffocating light.

And one day, it will.


	2. The Coming of Eve

**Author's Note:** Sequel to "Cradle Will Rock". Warning: Realistic situation and emotions follow. FF7 people are people, too!

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**Cat's Cradle**

The Coming of Eve

Marlene woke up to the sound of "Victory Bells", played merrily by her alarm clock on the nightstand. She didn't have to do work today because it was Remembrance Day, the day they had found the cure for Geostigma and Denzel had been saved in the Church. She yawned, rubbed the sleepiness away from her large brown eyes, and lazily sat up. Denzel was still snoring in his own bed. Marlene smiled, and turned to shut off the clock's cheerful rhyme.

The sun was shining brightly through the curtains. Marlene climbed off the bed to go brush her teeth. It was quiet downstairs; an odd thing, she thought. Tifa usually should be up by now, or at least the shower would be running. Marlene pouted. She padded across the floor, barefoot, and opened the door to the hallway, just in time to see the door across from her room opened and a blonde head poked out.

"Cloud!" Marlene cried, then immediately put her hand on her mouth as Cloud put a finger to his lip. "When did you get back?" she whispered, running toward him and hugging his lower torso tightly.

"Last night," Cloud replied. He was only wearing his sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Marlene could feel his warmth through the fabric.

"Is Tifa still asleep?" she asked.

"Yep," Cloud replied. "She's tired."

Tifa's always tired in the morning when Cloud comes back, Marlene thought. Her stomach suddenly grumbled, and she shook Cloud's arm. "Denzel's still asleep, too. Let's have breakfast without them!"

"Okay," Cloud whispered back. He then took Marlene's small hands and they walked down the stairs to the to kitchen in the back. It was barely dawn and the weak light only lit a few spots along the linoleum and the plastic counters.

Marlene climbed onto one of the tall stools, linking her hands together. Cloud went inside the small alcove, flipping on the light switch and Marlene found herself bathed in blights of aquamarine.

"So what's it gonna be, little lady?" Cloud asked, opening a cupboard to get out a pan and spatula.

"French toast!" Marlene said, clapping her hands. "With lots of syrup!"

"Good one," Cloud replied. He leaned down to turn the stove on low. "But it's going to take a bit. You want something else while I make this?"

Marlene thought for a minute. "May I have some milk, please?"

"Coming right up," he flashed her a smile before turning to open the fridge. "A warm one?"

"Nuh-uh."

It was rare to see the man before her this cheerful nowadays. Marlene shifted in her seat again. Even without picking up the conversations between Tifa and her dad, she could still feel the change that fell upon Cloud. She and Denzel talked about it sometimes, about how suddenly one day the delivery man gained color back on his face after a short job. Marlene had literally felt an odd aura surrounding Cloud thereafter – a peculiar smell of some sort. No one in the house had it before, yet the scent seemed to be stuck to him post every delivery. Marlene had gotten used to it now and started to like it.

But six months ago it stopped. The paleness returned to Cloud's face, and that good smell was gone as quickly as it came. Marlene didn't know what had changed. All she knew was that Cloud had become very quiet, and Tifa's face had taken on the worried look once more. Sometimes she could hear them talk in their room, low but furious and Marlene would always run outside then, usually dragging a confused Denzel behind her. They would stay out until after dusk, and everything would be fine by the time they returned.

"Here you go," a glass full of milk was pushed in front of the little girl's nose. Marlene grabbed it with both of her hands, her eyes lined up with the rounded edge.

"Thank you," she said and took a big gulp. "Hey, Cloud?"

"Yeah?"

"You're staying for a while, right?"

Cloud turned back toward the stove, but still looked at her over his shoulder. "Yep. Don't think I got another job for a few weeks."

Marlene clapped her hands in joy. "That means you _and_ Daddy are going to be here next week! Oh, can we go visit the Church later today? The flowers are growing there again."

Cloud took out a bowl. "Sure. I haven't been there for a while, either. It's a date, as soon as I talk about this with Tifa, okay?"

"O-tay!" Marlene replied. She swung her legs alternately, kicking the side of the counter in a soft rhythm. She heard the sound of water starting from upstairs – either Tifa or Denzel was up, taking a shower. Marlene smiled widely and looked out the window. The sun was shining strongly onto the dim grey streets. Remembrance Day was now looking very good.

She finished her milk and set the glass back down to the side. She could now feel the stove's warmth seeping out from the back. Her stomach grumbled again, loud enough for Cloud to answer with an amused quirk of his eyebrows. Marlene pouted. It wasn't exactly something she could control. She was about to say precisely that when she heard the unmistakable sound of the bell ringing just inside _7th Heaven'_sfront door.

Marlene twisted around in her seat, curious. The bar wasn't open yet, hence no one should be able to simply waltz inside. Tifa made sure to lock the door before turning in, and if Cloud came in later he'd of course do the same. There was a gentle breeze, and suddenly she smelled that exact same scent again, the intangible sweetness with something sharp lying beneath. The next breeze was stronger, and before Marlene could blink the blur of red and black had solidified into the form of Vincent Valentine, standing solidly between the outside and the in.

Marlene heard something crack behind her. She turned around again and saw a broken egg on the floor, the white splashed onto Cloud's bare feet. Cloud himself was still holding onto the spatula dipped in cinnamon sugar, his posture frozen and his eyes impossibly large. His mouth was opened just enough for Marlene to distinguish the pale lips' trembling.

The little girl didn't quite understand as she looked back and forth. It wasn't as if they had never seen Vincent before. But something was off. There seemed to be an electric current passing between the two men, straight through her body as if she was a thin paper doll. She didn't even dare to breathe. The room's warmth suddenly became overbearing, and Marlene wasn't sure if the stove was at fault. She blinked repeatedly, and when even that became too much, kept herself completely still.

"Marlene,"

Cloud's quiet call made her jump literally off the seat. "Y, yes?"

"I . . . think our French toast may have to wait," his eyes never left Vincent. "Sorry."

He put down the spatula and walked, slowly and unsteadily, past Marlene and out from behind the counter. Marlene finally remembered moving as the field of tension excluded her small frame. She took the opportunity and ran quickly toward the back of the kitchen. She turned off the stove first, then grabbed some paper towels to wipe up the mess on the floor.

"How did you know I'm here?" she heard Cloud ask.

"Where else would you go?" Vincent said, light and cool. "Where else _could_ you go?"

There was a muffled silence, and Marlene, curious despite herself, paused her cleaning and looked up. They faced each other, eyes blazed so brightly that Marlene thought flames were literally spreading from their pupils. Cloud's breathing was becoming ragged, his chest heaved in irregular patterns. Vincent was as calm as ever, except his fingers were twitching in anticipation. Of what, Marlene wasn't sure, and something in her gut told her that it wasn't for her to guess.

Vincent's good hand moved. It rose up toward Cloud's face, but stopped just short of touching skin and stayed there. Cloud's eyes closed, waiting with a thinly strained eagerness. He nearly rose to his tiptoes, and when Vincent's leather-clad fingers still remained a breath away he reopened his eyes and questioned silently. Yet his patience ran out before the answer was returned, and Cloud raised his own hands and clasped Vincent's within his palms, his nose grazing the slender fingertips. Vincent took in a sharp breath.

"You left me," Cloud murmured. "You just stopped coming and . . . You could have called. You could have told me something – anything but – why, Vincent. Why?"

"I was afraid," Vincent said.

Cloud moved closer, his cheekbone lightly brushed Vincent's lips. His gaze, however, was toward the bar's entrance. "Afraid of?" he asked.

Vincent's response was too soft for Marlene to pick up. She suspected they had completely forgotten about her, crouched down on the kitchen floor with sticky yolk paper in her hands. Marlene didn't think she should be watching this, but leaving would require getting up, and she was afraid that doing so would somehow tip everything over. So she stayed down and quiet, gathered up the broken eggshells and disposed the papers to the kitchen trashcan nearby.

When she looked back up they seemed to have finished speaking. Cloud's eyes were half-closed and Vincent's carried a soft look. Their faces were so near together that they were almost touching, and then they _were_ touching and Marlene felt something in her leap in warning. She quickly averted her eyes – it was definitely one of those adult moments that she had accidentally witnessed with Tifa and Cloud. But this _wasn't_ Tifa, and Marlene didn't know if that made it more or less strange. Even so, she was determined to stare right at the patterned tile in front of her and not listen to the sounds coming from that direction.

Until a familiar voice gasped behind her.

Marlene whipped her head around and saw the figure of Tifa on top off the stairs, clad in a house dress with dripping-wet hair splayed on her shoulders. Her hand hovered near her mouth in shock; her eyes round and glittering. Neither of the men moved, taking in her sudden entrance as if it were complete part of the plan. Vincent's hold on Cloud, if anything, became tighter. They were no longer kissing, but their posture suggested only a pause, rather than a definite cessation.

"Oh my god." Tifa's voice shook. "Oh my god! Vincent! I can't believe this. I can't – How could you?!"

As she rushed down the steps toward the unnaturally calm duo, Marlene scrambled up from her own position. She had never heard Tifa's voice going that shade of anger before, and she was getting very frightened. Tifa kept on talking, spilling out incoherent fragments while demanding an explanation. Vincent remained ever quiet, and Cloud, firm and determined in Vincent's embrace, patiently watched Tifa with an expected gaze.

Marlene thought the world was going to break.

Tifa only talked faster at the dragging silence. She circled both of them but kept her attention solely on Vincent. When she reached directly in front of him something crackled in the air, and Marlene spun around and dashed toward the back. She heard sharp slaps but didn't dare to look, and when she reached her bedroom she saw Denzel standing in the crack of the open door, an equally frightened expression on his face.

He moved back to let her in. When they were both safely inside, Marlene shut the door tight and turned the lock. Denzel's eyes were round as snowballs. His blinks showed his plain confusion, but Marlene didn't know any way to explain. All she knew was that nothing would be the same anymore.

After a minute she went to the nightstand and picked up the phone. All of their expressions – Tifa's anger, Cloud's resolve, Vincent's platitude – lingered vividly in her mind. The sound of breaking glass floated up the stairs, and Marlene had the urge to cover up her ears. She didn't, instead dialed the number quickly, and when the familiar gruff voice answered the relief was enough to bring her to tears.

"Daddy," Marlene cried. "Please come home now. Tifa and Cloud are fighting."


End file.
